


throwin' roses with my faith and skipping stones

by havethecouragetoexist



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, F/M, Kidnapping, Will add more tags as I go along, for now at least, i think that's it for tags?, mentions and centers pretty heavily around sansa and joffrey's past abusive relationship, not sure how to tag but basically, past Sansa Stark/Joffrey Baratheon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7397380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havethecouragetoexist/pseuds/havethecouragetoexist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had started out like any other normal day for Willas.</p><p>By the end of the day, he had sold six bouquets to the same girl in the span of one morning, gotten kidnapped, been driven halfway across the country, physically threatened, rescued, and been driven halfway across the country again (in the opposite direction).</p><p>And he might have maybe (definitely) fallen in love.</p><p>Alternatively:<br/>“Flower child,” she says by way of greeting as she leans an arm against the counter, “you know what I want.” He falters a little at the nickname as he picks up his cane to potter around the shop and come up with another bouquet for her. (The last time he’d been called flower child, he had been in seventh grade, and Margaery had punched the kid in the face. Thrice.)</p><p>Alternatively Alternatively:<br/>Willas runs a flower shop. Arya buys multiple fuck-you bouquets for Joffrey on behalf of Sansa. Everything goes to shit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. wasn't expecting that

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this as a congratulations-on-finishing-your-last paper present to my friend Nikki, light of my life, unstoppably gorgeous, and co-General of the Sansa Stark Defense Squad. Hope you like the fic, babe :-*
> 
> Typed this up in basically one day (instead of studying for my French test), and un-betaed so any mistakes are all mine. Wrote this in response to a prompt on tumblr that can be found here. (http://demisexualmerrill.tumblr.com/post/145668425096)
> 
> Also, as mentioned in the tags, the fic does mention and center pretty heavily around Joffrey's abusiveness so if you're squicky about that then do be careful!

It had started out like any other normal day for Willas.

By the end of the day, he had sold six bouquets to the same girl in the span of one morning, gotten kidnapped, been driven halfway across the country, physically threatened, rescued, and been driven halfway across the country again (in the opposite direction).

And he might have maybe (definitely) fallen in love.

*

The flowers had been misted and arranged, the sign on the door turned to show _Open_ , but Willas knows from experience that business will be slow for a good two hours in the morning, so he takes a book – _Sense and Sensibility_ , borrowed from Margaery for the week – and settles into his chair behind the cashier, propping his feet up onto a small stool. The store is filled with the soft music he has on in the background, and a potted fern behind him gently tickles his ear as he reads, enjoying the peace and quiet of the slow morning.

That is, of course, until the front door opens almost violently, the bell hung from the ceiling ringing shrilly as it swings in the air. Willas scrambles to get his feet off the stool, looking up to grin sheepishly, but his customer barely seems to notice. A petite brunette storms in, a scowl taking up most of her face and her combat boots thudding on his tiled floor – really, it’s almost terrifying how much ferocity is contained in such a tiny body – and slams a few ten-dollar bills on his counter.

“What’s the most passive-aggressive way to say fuck you with flowers?”

Willas blinks.

“I’m sorry, what?”

The scowl on her face deepens (Willas didn’t even realise that was possible).

“I said,” she begins again, exaggeratedly slowly, as if Willas has mud for brains, “how do I tell someone fuck you with flowers?” She raises a dark eyebrow at him and taps her fingers impatiently on the counter as Willas’ senses slowly come back to him.

“You want me to arrange you a bouquet to say fuck you to someone?” He pauses, “With flowers?”

“Yes.” The girl rolls her eyes, and her fingers tap more vigorously, “Bouquets _are_ made of flowers, no?”

“Uh,” Willas stands up from his chair, “Give me fifteen minutes.” The girl makes a noncommittal grunt, and he slips into the storeroom at the back of the store with a minimal amount of hesitation.

After all, as bouquet requests go, he has had stranger ones. (Just perhaps not this early in the morning.)

When Willas comes back, the girl takes the bouquet that he offers without any preamble, barely looking up from her survey of the marble-top cashier counter.

“Uh, that’ll be twenty-five dollars, do you want your change –” Willas’ voice trails off as he looks up from the cash register to see that the girl is already starting to storm back out, her money – almost sixty dollars in total – left on the counter.

“Just leave it there!” She yells back as she wrenches the front door of Willas’ shop open again, “I’ll be back.” She throws a murderous expression over her shoulder at Willas, her grin more a wolfish baring of her teeth than a true smile, before she is gone in a flurry of brown jacket and black boots.

He blinks for a few more moments before he decides to make the long trek with his cane up to his apartment above the shop for a paperweight.

*

True to her word, the girl returns no less than an hour later, this time nearly crashing into a gangly, stick-thin young man who had come into the shop and shyly asked Willas for the perfect bouquet to ask out his crush with. Said young man nearly drops and tramples all over his bouquet when the girl comes bursting back into the shop, the bell hung over his door protesting loudly.

“Flower child,” she says by way of greeting as she leans an arm against the counter, “you know what I want.” He falters a little at the nickname as he picks up his cane to potter around the shop and come up with another bouquet for her. (The last time he’d been called flower child, he had been in seventh grade, and Margaery had punched the kid in the face. Thrice.)

“Keep the change,” the girl singsongs when he has wrapped the flowers up nicely, “you’ll be seeing more of me.” She walks out with less fervour now, and doesn’t yank the front door open with homicidal intent so much as abuse it slightly.

Willas decides to attribute that to his skill at flower arrangement.

*

Willas is more prepared the next time she comes around, half an hour later, and so is able to muster up some level of response more intelligent than complete silence, “uh”, and/or “do you want your change?”

“I do have a name, you know?” he says dryly after she calls him Petals, Soil Master, Sir Bloom, and Floral Jedi in the span of fifteen minutes.

She squints at the name card he passes her, new bouquet in the other hand.

“Willas…?” She arches one perfectly manicured brow.

“Just Willas is fine.” He gives his best, award-winning (and, more importantly, customer-winning) smile.

“Hmm.” She looks him up and down, as if seeing him for the first time, and her lips curl into an expression that is distinctly unimpressed. “Never trust someone who won’t give their last name.” With a toss of her hair, she places the name card back on the counter and turns around.

“Bye, Rosie!” She waves her bouquet over her head and leaves.

Willas slumps back into his chair and lets his cane clatter against the floor.

*

Short-Hair-and-Combat-Boots comes back into his store no less than three more times, and on her seventh visit, she brings a guest.

She is tall – much taller than her fierce friend – with shiny auburn hair and sky blue eyes, and her skin is so smooth that the fleeting thought that she must be one of those evil queens who bathes in the blood of virgins crosses his mind – in a good way, of course.

Said guest, Willas is pretty sure, is an angel who has decided to grace the mortal realm and bless his shop.

That is, of course, until he notices the bruises marring her skin, and the expression on her face. She looks – sad, and empty, and Willas is suddenly struck by a surge of protectiveness for this girl whom he has never met.

A sentiment that her friend clearly shares, as she steps in between the two to glare at Willas.

He supposes it is a testament to the type of family that he comes from when he merely stares back at the expression that would have sent many a grown man running – and had, earlier in the day, caused two men to walk briskly out of his shop, one elderly woman to look quite pale and pull out her rosary, and four young children to promptly begin wailing, much to Willas’ chagrin.

(But he would be lying if he said his palms didn’t start sweating)

((Just a bit.))

“What are _you_ looking at, Daisy Face?”

He sighs, face falling into a grimace as he takes up his cane to start on another bouquet for the girl.

“I told you, ma’am, I have a name, it’s –”

“Willas,” the redhead speaks up for the first time since she’s stepped into the shop. “Don’t be rude, Arya.” The strength in her voice surprises Willas, at odds as it is with the empty look in her dull blue eyes.

The girl – Arya – grumbles some words that Willas cannot make out, but he’s pretty sure that they’re the opposite of not-rude.

“Pay her no mind,” the taller girl continues, “my sister can tend to be – abrasive. But she knows your name.” She sticks out a hand when Willas circles back to the cashier with the prepared bouquet in hand, “Sansa.” She smiles at him. It’s a polite smile, could pass for a pleasant one if it didn’t seem like such a strain to put on her face. “Sansa Stark.”

Sansa. And sisters. Who knew? Even now he can’t really see a resemblance between the two, but he decides to follow her advice – he isn’t going to be rude.

“You already know my name,” he chuckles sheepishly and runs a hand through his hair, “but still; pleased to meet you, Sansa.” He shakes her hand, “I’m Willas.”  

“And I’m on a schedule.” Unlike Willas, Arya Stark has, evidently, decided to ignore her sister’s advice, “we have a mission to complete, guys, let’s move along.”

Willas opens his mouth, about to ask what this mission of hers is, but Arya throws him another one of her burning glares, and Sansa’s face twists painfully at her sister’s words. (For a split second, the haunted look is stronger than ever, and she looks like she isn’t even there in the shop anymore; her expression eerily resembles what Garlan used to look like when he couldn’t wake up from his nightmares – eyes open but not awake.)

He decides not to pry.

Instead, he shuts his mouth and passes the bouquet over to Arya, who drops a few crumpled tens into his hand – since the money she first slapped on the table ran out about an hour ago.

Then the bell rings, and a blond young man flanked by two hulking bodyguards in white suits walks – rather, swaggers – into the store.

Three things happen simultaneously.

One: Willas turns to smile brightly at his new customers, because a) he was raised to be polite, and b) well, they’re _paying customers_.

Two: Arya’s expression turns positively murderous when she turns to see the newcomers. If Willas thought she was frightening before, that has nothing on what she looks like now, grey eyes hard, mouth practically forming a snarl and the tension in every joint and tendon of her petite frame visible to Willas even out of the corner of his eye.

Three: All the blood drains from Sansa’s face. Her skin, already pale before, is now completely absent of any colour whatsoever. Her entire body had given a slight jolt when the trio walked into the room, as if she had been shocked, and now her hands seem to shake ever so slightly.

Whoever these men are, Willas now has no doubt that they are not good news.

The first sentence out of the blond man’s mouth simply serves to solidify that impression.

“Is this who you’ve been cheating on me with, you fucking whore?” The blond man hisses and stalks forward, his bodyguards following him like shadows.

The room goes pin-drop silent at his words, and out of the corner of his eye, Willas sees Sansa go completely still. Her sister, in contrast, is practically vibrating with tension.

Before Willas can say a single word, the knife’s-edge tension in the room boils over.

The man’s cheeks are red and spittle flies out his mouth as he continues to spew some truly ugly profanities at Sansa, whose face is now completely blank and expressionless. At the exact same time, Arya whirls behind the counter and picks up the potted fern, all the while yelling back profanities of her own, while Willas decides – out of nowhere, really, his mind barely registers the decision before his body moves – to stand between Sansa and the three intruders.

It is from this vantage point that Willas sees Arya launch the fern – watches it sail over all their heads to smash right smack in the middle of the blonde man’s face. He staggers backwards, nose almost immediately blooming with blood.

And that’s when it all goes to shit.

The bodyguards are deceptively fast for their size, Willas realises detachedly, as they strike forward to grab Arya, who is screaming and cursing now, striking out at them with her small fists.

He starts to panic when one grabs Sansa as well. (He thinks he had intended to provide some modicum of protection by stepping in front of her, something he has evidently failed at.) Sansa who, by now, has mostly snapped out of her reverie, and seems to be more shocked than afraid, her blue eyes wide and long braid wild as she struggles against the man’s grip.

(Willas is wondering how the men managed to get their hands on the sisters when he was standing between them, but then he realises that the floor is speeding up towards him at an alarming rate, and there is a sharp pain advancing from the back of his skull.)

 _Oh._ He thinks, and then his vision goes black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow okay I did not expect that to get so angsty at the end but Sansa and Joffrey's relationship can never be dealt with in a lighthearted way imho (at least i'm not capable of doing it). Number of chapters has been set as three and I do already have the skeleton of a plot set out but stories tend to run away from me so we'll see how it goes? I'm also not sure what the details will be so tags will be updated as I go along.
> 
> Thanks for reading if you've made it this far, you're beautiful and amazing. One of my first fics ever and i'm pretty rusty with my writing so constructive criticism is welcome!!
> 
> Also feel free to hmu on tumblr if you wanna come flail about asoiaf and a bunch of other stuff with me, i'm at sorciere-ecarlate.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He knows Joffrey Baratheon by reputation only – firstborn son of the insanely wealthy (if brutish and womanising) wine tycoon Robert Baratheon, the blond is never far from whispers that circulate about his cruelty and dangerously wild moods – but his reputation is more than enough to set Willas’ teeth on edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not my best and the story feels kind of rushed but honestly I didn't want to hold onto it any longer so here's the second chapter!!! Hopefully the next chap will be better?? I will probably come back and edit it at some point in time, hope that at least it doesn't make you vomit

Willas comes to to the feeling of someone slapping his face, none too gently.

“Ah, the damsel in distress awakes.”

He opens his eyes slowly, the back of his head still throbbing with an alarming intensity. A blond head bobs in in front of him as the body that the head belongs to settles back into a seat across from him (it is at this point that Willas realises he’s in some sort of dark van?), burly men in white suits on either side.

Willas is still struggling to understand when he catches sight of a shock of auburn hair in his peripheral vision; the girl is deathly pale, the white of her skin nearly glowing in the dark of the van.

_Sansa._ Her name finally comes to him, and with it, everything else.

“Fuck,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment – against the ridiculousness of the situation, yes, but his head also just really _hurts_.

“A foul-mouthed one,” the blond man drawls sarcastically, “Sit tight, pretty boy. Once we reach our destination, I want to get to know _all_ about the new man my Sansa has decided to take up with.”

“I’m not yours, Joffrey,” Sansa stares down into her lap, her voice shaking as she whispers. With a jolt, Willas realises that he recognises that name, and he is gripped by the first real tendrils of fear as he connects the name to the face.

He knows Joffrey Baratheon by reputation only – firstborn son of the insanely wealthy (if brutish and womanising) wine tycoon Robert Baratheon, the blond is never far from whispers that circulate about his cruelty and dangerously wild moods – but his reputation is more than enough to set Willas’ teeth on edge.

(It is at this point that Willas realises that he has also been restrained, but he decides that there are worse things to worry about just then. For example, Joffrey Baratheon’s face has just turned a truly dangerous shade of puce.)

“I thought I told you to shut the fuck up!” His voice climbs in volume, until he screams the last word in the girl’s face.

At this, Sansa presses her lips harder together, and her jaw is clenched so tight Willas is afraid her teeth may shatter. Her head is bowed, blue eyes staring, wide open and unseeing, as she wrings her hands in her lap.

The rest of the ride in the back of the dark, mysterious van (like, seriously, what the _fuck_?) continues in much the same way, with Baratheon casually throwing cutting insults in Willas’ direction – and, sometimes, Sansa’s. Willas mostly ignores him, choosing, instead, to shoot the redhead concerned glances every now and then. She remains silent, even as her ex-boyfriend’s tone becomes increasingly acidic, still as a statue except for her hands which, impossibly, twist themselves together ever tighter.

Eventually, the vehicle screeches to a stop, and Sansa only seems to shrink further in on herself when the bodyguards lurch into a flurry of activity. They pull black sacks over the two kidnapping victims’ heads (because, honestly, there’s no point denying that this is a kidnapping, and Willas can’t help but think that it is a ridiculously cliché one at that) before brusquely shoving them out the back of the van, and Willas’ bad knee protests painfully when he stumbles to the concrete ground. He barely has time to think about it, though, before he is being grabbed and unceremoniously marched forward. They seem to enter some sort of indoor area, judging by how what little light shining through the black cloth lessens significantly. His knee is practically screaming by the time the bodyguard dragging him along stops walking, and it is almost a relief when Willas is once again dumped to the ground, and his black hood is roughly yanked off his head to reveal a small room, the walls a dirty white.

Willas blinks and flinches when he sees that the blond man is looming directly over him, his attractive features twisted viciously.

“You know, now that I’ve gotten a good look at you, you aren’t so pretty after all.” He sneers and spits in Willas’ face, all while Sansa stands, stock-still, held back by Baratheon’s bodyguards. Willas barely sees the kick coming before it happens, a sudden pain blooming behind his torso when the blond’s foot connects with his ribs. The elbow that had been holding Willas up, half-sitting, buckles more out of shock than anything, and his face collides painfully with the slightly damp gravel as he winces on the floor, attempting to re-orientate himself. He vaguely notices out of the corner of his eye that Sansa seems to have broken out of her reverie, twisting against the bodyguard’s grip, her red hair and blue eyes wild.

Willas grunts as Joffrey tugs him back up by his hair, and he is pretty sure that the blond manages to yank out a good few strands of hair from his scalp.

“I can’t believe Sansa lowered her standards to a random soil-stained nobody like you,” he is almost nose to nose with Baratheon, those green eyes glinting almost manically, and Willas feels real _terror_ when he realises he recognises that look as bloodthirst. “You’re going to rue the day you ever put together those fucking bouquets.”

He throws Willas back to the ground before delivering another kick to his side, more vicious than the last, and this time Willas _feels_ the blow, all the way down to his kidneys. He feels a little like a fish out of water, curled up on the floor with his mouth wide and gasping.

_Get up, Willas, get_ up.

He gets an elbow underneath him, his bound hands fumbling as struggles to push himself up and off the ground, but he barely moves an inch before pain explodes in his knee, and Willas _screams_.

His vision is tinged pink with agony, but he vaguely sees through the haze that Baratheon has placed a foot on his leg, and – judging by the way his knee is burning worse than Willas has felt in years – is placing all his weight on that leg.

“Yeah, you prick, don’t think I didn’t notice you hobbling around with that pathetic cane earlier,” the blond pushes down even harder, and the pain becomes almost unbearable. His eyes start to water as Baratheon hisses down at him, “Scream all you want, pretty boy, but I’m just getting started.”

And Willas does. He screams himself hoarse, try as he might to stop, and dimly he registers that the screams in the room are no longer only his own.

“Stop it!” Sansa’s voice suddenly rises, finally, impossibly, over the cacophony in the room, and the room falls silent. Willas is panting on the ground, taking a moment to catch his breath as Joffrey leans off of his leg – finally – to stalk towards the girl. Willas, eyes tearing, raises his head wearily off the gravel, and sees that Sansa is standing tall, her fiery hair just about the only thing he can truly distinguish through his bleary vision.

“Stop.” Her voice is no longer a shrill scream, but is firmer, more solid. The guards have not loosened their grips on her arms, but Sansa draws herself up as much as she possibly can.

“I should have known,” Joffrey’s voice sounds strange, tinny, to Willas’ ears, and he notices with a sort of detached alarm that everything is starting to sound like he is underwater. “Couldn’t bear to see your little boy toy getting hurt, could you?”

“Don’t worry,” the man sneers, “You fucking join him, you bitch.” He raises his hand and slaps her full across the face, and the crack echoes through the empty room as Sansa tumbles to the floor from the force of the blow.

“Let’s leave them to rot, boys.” The Baratheon stalks out, a heavy metal door slamming dramatically behind him to leave silence loaded with tension so thick that Willas can practically feel the air vibrating.

“I’m sorry,” Sansa’s voice is quiet, the words so soft that Willas almost thinks he imagined them. He swivels his head over (everything still _hurts_ , his limbs feel too heavy and unwieldy to move, and just that simple, labored action of turning to face her sends new jolts of pain flashing through his skull) and sees that she has curled in on herself, knees tucked in tightly.

“What for?” Willas’ voice is barely louder, hoarse and broken as he struggles to sit up properly.

Sansa looks up, and Willas feels something akin to rage at the look of her face. Her lip is already split, blood gathering at the corner of her mouth, and a huge, ugly bruise is blooming purple and red across her cheekbone.

“I got you into this.” She looks defeated as she shrugs. “Joffrey’s only doing this because he thinks we’re dating.”

“Hey, come on,” Willas tries to smile at her, “this isn’t your fault.”

Sansa only tucks her chin tighter into her knees, and doesn’t say a word in response. Any last dregs of strength suddenly leach out of Willas’ muscles and he lays down on the ground, staring up the ceiling, spots of dirt dotting the grey cement.

“I don’t know what they did with Arya,” Sansa suddenly pipes up again, voice sounding impossibly small and also much nearer, and Willas looks away from the ugly walls to see that she has shuffled to sit beside him now.

Willas wants to say, “I’m sure she’ll be alright,” but he knows that would be a lie, so he just keeps his mouth shut and reaches out a hand. Sansa stares at it for a long moment, before she reaches out a hand, slowly, and wraps her long, cold fingers around it.

They remain like that, hand in hand in the stale air and dark of the windowless room, and sometime later they both, impossibly, fall into a restless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, feedback and suggestions are welcome, and come find me on tumblr at sorciere-ecarlate :)


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It looks up at him suddenly, golden eyes intelligent, almost as if sizing him up, and Willas has the sudden urge to fidget as the dog – Husky? Wolf? Fuck if Willas knows – continues to stare at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The final chapter woohoo!!! So sorry for taking so long with this but real life is seriously a bitch :( Having some rare downtime this weekend and I decided to finish this fic up. I really wanted to get it out quickly so it's not proofread or betaed and all mistakes are my own stupid self's, but I hope you still like it!

Something jolts against his arm and Willas’ eyes snap open. Light struggles its way in through a tiny solitary window in the corner of the room, and he sees Sansa sitting bolt upright, her auburn hair tangled and wild after a night of sleeping on the floor. Her hip and leg are still pressed up against him, and the numb buzzing in his arm gives Willas the sneaking suspicion that they somehow ended up curled against each other in the night.

“Sansa?” Willas’ bad leg is usually terribly stiff in the mornings, and sleeping on the hard ground has only made it worse, so he struggles to sit up. “What’s wrong?”

She turns to face him, and the hope glowing out of her face takes his breath away for a moment. He had thought her beautiful before, but sad somehow in a way that seemed to dim the light behind her eyes, made her skin seem dull and sallow. Now though, the clear happiness and relief is as foreign as it is stunning, her blue eyes bright and her brows out of the persistent frown that they have been pressed into ever since Willas met her.

“Listen.” Her voice is hushed, her tone strangely excited as she squeezes Willas’ hand in delight.

(Willas is mystified, to say the least.)

She is barely paying any attention to him, her gaze fixed on the door and her expression focused, so Willas mentally shrugs and follow suit.

It’s hard to hear, through the thick concrete walls of the room, but Willas thinks he can make out shouting – low voices made shrill, probably Joffrey’s men – and…growling?

The growling gets progressively louder and closer; Willas can hear the men’s shouting starting to become screaming, and loud gunshots ricochet off the walls, echoing around the room. Whatever is making the growling sounds big, and _angry_ , and Willas still doesn’t understand what is happening and he’s starting to get slightly terrified, to boot, throwing increasingly anxious looks at Sansa, but she just continues to sit, her expression calm and immeasurably relieved.

She seems almost to be – waiting.

When the door is finally thrown open, Willas full-body flinches, his body automatically angling itself away from whatever horror is at the door, but Sansa just lets out a sigh, the tension leaching out of her frame.

“Arya.” The name comes out of her in a whisper, and Willas –

Well, Willas is surprised, to say the least.

“Sansa!”  The brunette barrels into the room like a hurricane and slams into a fierce hug with her sister, the two Starks holding each other tight like they are one person instead of two.

Willas barely notices.

He’s too busy staring at the massive dog – he’s halfway sure that it’s some mystical beast because of how _huge_ it is – standing in the doorway, licking its paws and – good god, is that _blood_ on its muzzle?

It looks up at him suddenly, golden eyes intelligent, almost as if sizing him up, and Willas has the sudden urge to fidget as the dog – Husky? Wolf? Fuck if Willas knows – continues to stare at him. Willas turns to Arya and Sansa, mouth open to ask for some explanation for what on earth is happening, but then Sansa looks over Arya’s shoulder gasps, her hands flying to her mouth. She runs to the doorway and Willas looks to see _another_ dog, smaller but still huge, slinking in through the door.

Sansa falls to her knees and buries her face in the dog’s ruff, hands swallowed up in the dog’s beautiful white-grey fur.

“Lady.” Arya’s voice jolts Willas out of his confused daze, and he turns to see her nod at him.

“What?”

“That’s Sansa’s dog, Lady.” She weaves her fingers into the darker grey fur of the larger dog, “this one’s Nymeria.” The dog comes up to Arya’s waist, and stands alert next to her, ears pricked up. “We found them in a shelter, all six of them, – one for each of the Stark siblings, even Jon, although he’s our half-brother. Their mother died when she got hit by a car, and those at the shelter said they found the litter half-starved and weak but they put up a damned good fight when the volunteers tried to separate them.” She smiles, baring her teeth in an expression not unlike her dog, “They can be quite vicious, if needed.”

Willas just blinks at the dog for a little longer, with its uncanny golden eyes, and nods.

(Dogs that are waist-high, staring like they can see through your soul, and _six_ Stark siblings? At this point, Willas isn’t really sure anymore if this entire thing is just a fever dream.)

“Let’s go.” The words sound from the doorway. Sansa is standing tall, her spine straighter than he’s ever seen it, her expression determined. Her hair is a mess, tangled and wild, and her clothing is all rumpled and torn in some places, but in that moment, with her shoulders pulled back and her face set in determination, her hand resting in her dog’s ruff as if she’s never letting go, Sansa Stark looks nothing less than regal.

They walk out of the room, and Willas’ stomach turns at the sight of Joffrey’s men lying on the floor outside the room. Some of them are flat-out unconscious, some moaning in pain with their limbs bent at awkward angles, blood on their clothing. Willas shoots another look at the dogs, padding beside the sisters, and Willas would swear they look smug.

The sound of a gun cocking sends Willas’ heart jumping into his throat, and Joffrey Baratheon staggers to his feet in front of them, pistol shakily held out in front of him. The dogs begin snarling and snapping, their hackles raising, while Sansa and Arya stand stock-still. The blonde spits to his side, blood splattering on the ground.

“You aren’t fucking leaving today,” he snarls, expression twisted into a vicious, barely-human rage, “even if I have to shoot you myself.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Willas sees Sansa’s fist tighten in Lady’s fur, and her spine coils tight as a spring, yellow eyes trained on the Baratheon, and the serenely deadly expression on the redhead’s face gives Willas no doubt that the dog is about to attack.

“Put down the gun, you foolish boy.” The voice is as familiar to Willas as his own, as is the tone of exasperated disapproval that practically screams _what an idiot_. The tension in the room doesn’t break so much as take on a different quality, and now it is Willas’ turn to relax while the Stark sisters tense up, turning slightly to face the newcomer.

It is anticlimactic, to say the least, when a tiny old woman comes tottering in, her grey-brown hair pulled back into a no-nonsense twist at the nape of her neck, and her distaste evident in the way she stares at Joffrey in much the same way one would look at a piece of gum stuck to their shoe.

Willas takes no small amount of satisfaction in the way that the cruel grin on Joffrey’s face dies at the bodyguards that walk in behind her, much more hulking and menacing than any of his Baratheon men, and certainly at an advantage on the broken-bones-and-snapped-wrists front.

“What in all seven hells Robert and Cersei did to raise such a violent imbecile, I’ll never know.” She walks calmly all the way up to the trembling Baratheon, ignoring the way he wildly swings the gun to point it at her, before tilting her head to the side in faux consideration. “Hmm. Then again, that Lannister woman has always been a vicious tart, and your father is dense as bricks.” She beckons for her bodyguards, and they dart forward with a speed that belies their size, snapping the gun out of Joffrey’s hand even as he wilts in defeat. “Don’t tell them I said that, though.” She turns to wink at Willas, as if she hasn’t just disarmed the blonde with little more than her sharp tongue.

“And how are you doing, grandson?” Willas feels more than sees the way Arya and Sansa’s heads whip towards him when she says that, their surprise – or rather, shock – palpable.

“Grandmother,” he sighs at Olenna Tyrell’s characteristic prickliness, and limps forward, “as well as I can be, I suppose.”

She tuts, her eyes traveling up and down Willas’ frame to land on his bad leg. It is, of course, at this moment that another familiar voice rings through the warehouse, its panicked and affronted tone as familiar as Olenna’s disdainful one.

“Willas!” Mace Tyrell rushes – as best as he can rush – in, Willas’ mother and siblings not far behind, his face red and lungs heaving. “You little shit,” he turns to Joffrey, one meaty fist waving in the air, “if you’ve done anything to hurt my son, I’ll – I’ll –”

“Mace,” Willas’ grandmother rolls her eyes and shoots her son a _look_ , “do refrain from making an even greater fool of yourself than the Baratheon chit has.”

Willas’ father’s mouth snaps shut, and Willas sees Arya and Sansa raise an eyebrow in almost comical symmetry, but Willas’ mother and siblings, standing behind Mace, just look resigned. With Mace Tyrell’s attempts at bluster and threats out of the way, Olenna makes quick work of the proceedings, bundling the whole bunch out of the warehouse in short order.

Garlan steps forward with a wheelchair for Willas although he hasn’t used a wheelchair in years, not since the earliest days after his accident. It burns in him but he sits down with no small measure of relief, all the adrenaline rushing out of him the moment he rests his leg.

His smiles at Garlan, a thankful tilt upwards of the lips tinged with shame and frustration, but then he feels a gentle, cool pressure on his hand. Sansa stands beside him, her copper hair falling forward to hide part of her face as she nods at Willas’ younger brother. He nods back, stepping away, and Sansa goes to stand behind Willas, pushing his chair to follow the rest out to the near-ridiculous entourage of cars.

“I didn’t know you were related to the Tyrells, let alone the Queen of Thorns’ grandson.” Sansa’s voice is low in an attempt to be discreet, and Willas chuckles at the nickname. Matriarch of a flower-selling business empire, his grandmother certainly earned a reputation, one that she takes strange pride in.

(The whispers of “Queen of Thorns” are not as quiet as people think they are, but it matters not because Olenna Tyrell delights in the title.)

“I didn’t know you knew who my family is,” Willas replies, avoiding the question for the time being.

“I ran in the same circles as Joffrey Baratheon for a long time, Willas,” she replies, and Willas hears the almost inaudible sound of her palms on the rubber handles of the chair as her grip tightens, “and, by extension, the same circles as yours. I’m just surprised that I never saw you around.”

They reach the van with a ramp for Willas’ chair, and the conversation pauses for a moment as the Tyrell men help Willas up into the vehicle. He leans back, resting his head on the cool leather of the car seat, eyes half-lidded as he takes a few deep breaths. Out of the slits of his eyes he sees Sansa having a few words with the guards, hears her low, melodic voice, before she slips into the van to sit opposite from Willas. Her dog – Lady – comes along too as well, of course, and his father’s men eye the dog uneasily but she settles into the space between Sansa and Willas with a graceful swish of her tail, and the men let it be.

“She’s very beautiful.” Sansa’s hands are in Lady’s fur again, just as how the dog never seems to stray far from the older Stark girl, constantly seeks out her side as if starved for her touch.

Sansa hums noncommittally, her slender fingers continuing to stroke patterns over Lady’s smoke-grey fur.

“I thought I lost her.”

Her voice is quiet, tremulous, and she looks up at Willas with those bright blue eyes, “I took her with me when I moved in with Joffrey, and he kept her from me for so long that I thought he’d killed her somehow. I was heartbroken when I ran, of course,” the dog looks up at Sansa and she scratches her under the chin, “Kept debating with myself even as I climbed out my window and ran across the compound on whether to go back for her. I was so terrified that he would hurt her, if she wasn’t already dead.”

A small smirk forms on Sansa’s lips, and she grins in a suddenly feral way that reminds Willas of Arya, more subtle but no less deadly. “There isn’t a scratch on her, though, so I suppose she defended herself well.”

“But don’t change the subject, Willas.” Lady turns to watch Willas in that calculating way that seems eerily human, yellow eyes unblinking, mirroring the penetrating look in her mistress’ eyes, “What I said, about never seeing you at any of those godawful functions or galas?”

Willas sighs, his hand immediately going to run through his brown curls, “Well, like you said, they _were_ awful.” He glances sheepishly up at Sansa with his feeble attempt at a joke, but she just continues to watch him serenely, and he sighs again.

“It’s silly, but I – I wanted to become my own man, away from the influence of my family, which sounds stupid because I’ve always wanted to take over the family business anyway, I mean, I love doing all the plant shit, and I _am_ the oldest, so I’m the heir to the business,” at this Willas sees surprise flicker over Sansa’s face before it’s carefully tucked away, but he just pays it no mind, “But I didn’t want to – I wanted to work my way up, learn for myself what it’s like to do the grunt work, so.” He shrugs, breaking eye contact for a moment to look down, “My dad threw a fit when he first found out, of course, but my mother and my grandmother and my siblings were all on my side, and he caved eventually. I set up my own shop, completely independent of my family’s firm, and I’ve been running it for, what? Five years now? I still keep tabs on the business every now and then, of course, make sure I’m kept in the loop, but I’ve kind of been doing my own thing for quite a while now, and I still have dinners with my family and everything, of course, but I don’t really touch the high society part, and I meddle as little as possible in the family business for now.”

He looks up self-consciously at Sansa, realising that he’s been rambling about himself for a long time, but she just looks thoughtful, fingers curling and uncurling in Lady’s pelt.

“Sounds like a good plan.” She smiles at him, a small, gentle one, and Willas can’t help but smile back.

They sit in silence for a while more, staring out the window at the buildings blowing past, the people rushing around on the streets going about their lives, and it feels strangely calm in the vehicle, cut away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the world, the comfortable silence a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the past two days – gods, has it only been two?

“So what happens now?” Sansa breaks the silence first, and when Willas looks away from the window her teeth are worrying over her bottom lip, a small crease forming between her brows. The bravery and grace that she displayed, squaring off against Joffrey Baratheon, seem to have fled her for the moment, and Willas feels his breath catch when he realises that he would do anything to prevent her from becoming that scared, cowed girl that she was when she first stepped into his shop.

“We move on, I suppose.” Willas watches the girl sitting across from him intently, “I go back to my shop, you can stop worrying about Joffrey harassing you, and Arya can continue harassing little shits with a god complex.”

Sansa laughs, a sudden burst of chuckles that cuts off as quickly as it happened, but when she stops her eyes look a little brighter, and her smile comes a little easier.

“I would like that.” Her voice is a little stronger, her back a little straighter, and she looks closer to the queenly figure that she cut back in that room with Baratheon’s gun in her face. “I would like that,” she repeats, and reaches a hand, the one not buried in Lady’s fur, to hold onto Willas.

He takes it, twining his fingers through hers, and feels the corners of his lips pull up into a smile.

\---

Later, when they get off the van and Sansa and Arya run into the arms of their waiting family – the Starks certainly look out of place on the nondescript pavement, a huge group of eight, six of them with massive dogs at their side – Margaery flounces up to Willas, mischievous smile hanging on her face, and Willas rolls his eyes so hard at her expression that he sees spots for a moment.

(Although the seeing spots may just be because of the events of the past two days.)

“She’s pretty,” Margaery singsongs, giggling in that deceptively sweet way of hers, and she laughs even harder when Willas’ cheeks flush bright red. He shoots her a look, but she barely reacts – as the only girl in the family, precocious and coddled by Mace, she has more than enough experience with Willas’ _looks_ , an immunity only made stronger by her being tutored at Olenna’s knee from birth. Her expression sobers for a moment, small hand landing on Willas’ shoulder to squeeze lightly, “She’s been through a lot, Willas,” her doe eyes are filled with something like concern, “if the two of you do end up having something, make sure you take care of her.”

Willas looks over to Sansa, her auburn hair shining ever redder in the late-afternoon sunlight, head buried in her father’s chest as the rest of her family gathers around her and Arya for a tight hug.

“After today,” Willas looks up at Margaery, expression thoughtful, “I think she’s well on her way to taking care of herself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now!! Thanks if you've managed to stick with me through this rocky and shittily-written journey! 
> 
> Anyway, I didn't really want to make anything between Sansa and Willas super official because i mean Sansa's probs still leery of getting into any relationship after that shitfest with Joffrey, and I doubt Willas would push her into anything either. Plus, I hope no one is offended by Willas saying at the end that Sansa is "on her way" to taking care of herself as opposed to just being able to take care of herself. In my mind Sansa is not 100% there yet, she's still kind of in that phase where she's trying to find herself after being so vulnerable and abused by Joffrey (kinda like that point in-canon when Margaery just arrives in KL) She'll get there soon though, especially with her whole family to help (unlike in canon)! I have faith in our girl ;)
> 
> I may write a sequel to this with Willas and Sansa actually becoming a thing but if anything writing this has taught me that aus are fuckin hard to write so we'll see how it goes, but until next time, thanks for reading!
> 
> As always, feel free to come find me on tumblr at sorciere-ecarlate as i flail and cry on a daily basis


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